Reasons to be missed
by gemini in tauro
Summary: "What do you mean they're lonely? There's so many of them blooming together. And maybe we're alone when we born and die, but, like those Erica, there'll always be someone blooming beside you…for all time."After his life's struggles, he just wanted to be somebody's light, and when he became it, he just wanted him to let go of his after life; for the price was too big for him to pay.
1. Primum agere: Forgetting all the hurt

**Disclaimer:** Neither of the characters here belong to me. They are Yana Toboso's and musical's property (tend to forget names, beg your pardon).

 **Comments:** So, I had this itching on me since a while ago, not this story exactly, but a part of it, and maybe to write about my second favourite grim reaper! (Because Sascha is still winning). This is… kind of an origin fic, but also a post-kuromyu2 fic, so it's kind of confusing, I am doing my best, I swear. Also, I'm using head canons on my own just to fill holes, my intention it is not to for you to take them as though they are true and confirmed.

I honestly hope you get to enjoy it, if I have to say something else, it'll be on the ending notes!

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Reasons to be missed.

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 **[1]** Forgetting all the hurt.

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He drew another circle around his eyes, just because he couldn't believe the enormous bags under them.

He blinked once. Then, twice. His gaze followed everything it could see, perpetually blinking. Eventually, his gaze met his own hands, strangely carrying with themselves some unknown feeling of foreignness, that which only surrealism was capable of explain.

Then his irises met some kind of glass in front of him, which showed undoubtedly his exterior, and even if it was distorted, he could see curiosity breathing out of those green-yellow things that confronted him from the reflection.

At some point, more clear and less abstract thoughts filled his brain, his primitive instincts activating and dragging doubts with them.

Where was he? What was going on? What had happened?

And foremost, _who_ was he?

After a few minutes of existential crisis, and several blinks, he could feel his sight starting to blur, to the point where the only thing he could recognize in the mirror in front of him—later he realized it wasn't just some glass—was his blurry shape.

'Welcome.'

Like a surprised puppy, he jumped at the time his breathing became fast. He gazed around him, looking for the owner of the voice that greeted him.

'No need to be scared, nobody's gonna hurt you here. It's not like they could do it, anyway.'

'Wh-Who are you?'

His intention wasn't to sound scared.

'Oh, I'm terribly sorry,' the other whined at the time his voice filled itself with an apparent and sudden realisation. 'My name is Othello Wilmore, but if you like it, Othello is perfectly fine with me. Everybody here calls me that.'

He blinked several times and tried to focus his sight on the other, and it only made his head began to hurt. He could hear the other having the reaction of knowing something he didn't, which was rather unpleasant.

'I beg pardon again, I'm new at this of receiving, so I forgot every detail of the process.' His clothes seemed to ruffle and a hand came close to his face, putting some glasses on it. 'And, let's give this room some light, now shall we?' It wasn't until Othello said it that he noticed the gloomy aura around them. The other clapped his hands a few times and repentantly the world became too bright for him.

'Where are we?' This time his voice became clearer. He blinked a few times, and he stared at the crystal that moments ago was the only thing he could kind of recognise in the room. Now he knew he was in an almost empty room—it looked empty to him—that had little to nothing furniture, was eye-hurting and the wallpapers were white. Othello gazed at him and put one of his hands on the back of his neck, while averting his eyes from him, nervously.

'You see…' he let out a stifle that sounded closely like a laugh, 'this place is… where everyone… starts again, if you wish to call it somehow.'

'And why I am here? What did I do?' Othello's nervousness seemed only to grew, he bit his lip, unsure of what the protocol said to do.

'All of us are here for the same reason, you see. We're… we've committed something terrible against humanity, and we… are to be punished. That's why we are here.'

He looked again at his hands, and now he could see clearly all of its details pretty clear, and thanks to the glasses Othello put on them his sight had improved greatly. He took in air, and he let it out. He gazed back at Othello, who looked rather confused by his latest action.

'And… what did _I_ do?'

Othello took a folder with some papers in it, and started to read. It wasn't until a few minutes later that he looked at him again. 'If this isn't wrong, you killed Mr. Alan Humphries; born in October 6th of 1780, parents were Lady Marianne of Humphries and Mr. Jonathan Humphries, death on December 3rd of 1799… he was pretty young' he looked at him again, and sighed, 'you were pretty young.'

He must have remembered if he killed someone named Alan Humphries… it shouldn't be a hard name to memorise. Then again, he didn't even remembered his own name, however, what Othello said…

'Was I this…Alan?' The question exited his lips before he could stop the words from forming in his throat.

'…Yes, you were. You _are_. We cannot take your name away unless you wish so,' explained Othello while looking again at his documents. 'And even if you ask it, it would be almost impossible for us to do so.'

 _Alan_ nodded. 'And… how did I do it? The killing thing, I mean.'

Othello shrugged at the time he looked at his folder. 'Well, here it says it was… huh, extraordinary, blossoms of aconitum and daphne? You surely made sure your death was a given.' He then read a few more paragraphs and his easy smile disappeared. 'You were written to die in April 24th of 1826. Cause of death: …not defined.'

Alan thought for a moment. Those… the aconitum and the daphne were… 'Flowers? I killed myself with _flowers_?'

'Poisonous flowers, I daresay,' Othello corrected him. Alan paused and thought for a moment about it. 'And terribly hard to find, that is. Or at least, in this part of the world, you cannot find them just for asking for them in the nearest flower shop. Not that anyone will give them to you willingly, for if they touch them, they may have the same destiny as you.'

Alan looked at his hands. They were creamy, and they were soft, untouched. He never could have guessed what made him do what he did, what made him take away his life. He gulped, repentantly in need to breathe, how had he happened to not breathe for about ten minutes? Or was it that he did it unconsciously that he didn't need to analyse it?

'That's a fair reaction for newbies. Don't worry, you'll be fine. Just… you need to get used to it.' Othello looked at something in his wrist and then opened his eyes wide. 'Oh, for the love of God, you're supposed to report yourself with the superiors. Follow me, I'll accompany you.'

He walked out of the room, soon followed by Alan, who still couldn't believe what he did, and couldn't seem to remember why he did it. They passed more brightly illuminated corridors, and small walls that formed some kind of square, where people was working in some illuminated boxes Alan couldn't made out. Anyhow, he didn't care what they were doing, nor what these boxes were for. He followed Othello around similar rooms like that one, some full of men, some full of women, until they reached an important-looking door. Othello raised his hand to Alan, telling him to wait for him. Alan stood where he was told to, and waited for the other to come out and fetch him. Until that moment, Alan tried to contain his breathing, until he couldn't any longer.

'Humphries, they're waiting for you.' He blinked several times until his brain could process the information. He then stared at the other, and when he finally understood the weight of what that meant, he nodded and took in air, then he let it out. Before he could even realise it, he was walking towards the room, which was full of tall walls (around six yards) with also tall tables that almost look taken out of a kid's nightmare when they were visiting their headmaster's office.

'Alan Humphries, born October 6th of 1780. Is this correct?'

'It is, I believe.'

'Death December 3rd of 1799, by poisoning. Is this correct?'

'It is.'

'You know what this place is for, Mr. Humphries?'

'For redemption. That is at least what I believe, sir.'

One of the so called _superiors_ glanced at him from their chair and adjusted their glasses, and Alan started to feel the eyes of all of them on him. Not that he didn't felt them looking at him before, but it was more… subtle, that how they were doing it at that very moment.

'Are you aware that you are to pay for the sin you have committed, are you not?'

'That is what I was told, yes.'

'Do you have any idea of the punishment that awaits those who commit suicide?'

'Not the slightest, sir. But I guess it has to be really bad if I am to come back to life.'

'You are not alive, neither death, Alan Humphries. You cannot return to one side, nor go to the other. That is the first part of dealing with your punishment.' Said repentantly other of the superiors, seemingly annoyed.

'I suppose it had to be this way. Humans say it is to be casted right away into the inferno, who dare ever to threaten their own life; maybe that is why committing such an act causes taboo reactions from the crowd, whether is heard one of these.' He tried to choose wisely his words, not saying something that could be taken as inopportune or that could affect his image in front of the superiors, so he tried to not delude himself with the image death had to offer, tempting, but forbidden. Wrong, and yet so right. Crowded, but terribly lonely.

'That is in theory why they have to pay for their sins, for you see, an eternal punishment is nothing but torture, and torture would not be fair, not even for the worst sin.'

Alan nodded. 'I understand.'

'You are to become a Death God, Alan Humphries. This is… the punishment saved for those who commit suicide. Are you understanding this?'

Truth be told, he didn't really get that. Death God? What it the world was that supposed to mean? 'I understand I have to do something, but what is it I have to do, sir?'

'It will depend purely on your abilities. Some of them are scientific, some of them are forensic, some secretaries, General Affairs, glasses, Death Scythes, or recollection. But as we said, it is purely based on your abilities. We will see how your development on your first six months will go on the Reaper's academy, and then you will be chosen to a specific work, and then you will have to specificity on it. Is there any point without being told?'

'None, sir. I thank you for advising me of this, and taking in consideration… whatever has to be taken in consideration. I very appreciate the—this opportunity for redemption. I assure you will not be disappointed on my behalf.'

'We expect of you as much as we do from all of the Death Gods, you can retire now.'

Alan bid goodbye with a bow and walked into the exit. Once he was out and he was looking at Othello again, bowed a thanks to him.

'What am I to do now?'

'Wow, it seems as though the talk with the superiors sucked out your soul, now there's no expression at all in your face!' He smiled a little, and that seemed to take out one from Othello as well, only that his was more playful and willing to run just for the fun of it. 'There, that's better.'

'It just seems… like they can see through your very soul. What are they?'

'They are the same thing as us, no longer humans.' He shrugged the subject off, and then he added. 'Wanna see where you'll be living now?'

'It still feels so surreal, but I guess I'll say yes.'

They walked through all the edification, until they reached the ground floor. Once they were there, they walked away from an incredibly human-looking park, were other Death Gods were passing time, having some fun. Othello always did a conversation that could help Alan's memories to come back to him, he said it was part of the protocol, and Alan was grateful for it. Alan found out, thanks to Othello's conversations, that he was probably from a classy family.

'Did you know that the way you suicide yourself shows a lot of your personality?'

'I didn't pay attention to it, but I guess it has.'

Then something came to his eyes, it looked dull, and very far, almost like some bad taken picture. There laid his hands, and in them there were a lot of flowers, most of them, he could guess, were wild and no poisonous flowers, contrary to the ones that led him to his death. He could guess those were aloe flowers, and he also could tell they meant bitterness. In his hands there also laid some passion flowers. Was he mourning over someone?

He blinked, and soon he realised Othello was staring at him. 'I beg pardon. You see, I had—'

'No need to explain yourself. They happen to refill your memories. When you have all your memory regained, or at least the one that helps you to remember what lead you to your death, then you will be able to start your training. For now, you have to learn some basic rules.'

'Such as…?'

'Well, since you're a newbie, you have to live in the house of that who greeted you with this world, until your memories are back.' Alan arched an eyebrow at this, but Othello nodded, to confirm what he was saying as terribly true. 'For now, you can read, that will also help you with your speciality. Won't it?'

'Guess it will.' He shrugged the conversation off and they talked about something completely different, taking his mind away of the memories he could recall not.

Alan thought, at first that having his memories back would not be all that hard, since getting back the first one had been as easy as doing tea.

How foolish he'd been.

Not only hard, but apparently going on and about with Othello did nothing for his memories, going out to eat or get out and walk aimlessly, sometimes they would go to Othello's lab and talk about the decompound bodies—later in his first day as a Death God, he learned that Othello was on the forensic branch.

'What if Alan Humphries wasn't one to go out all that often?' He wondered aloud once, his mind numb and his fingers playing with the leaves of some lavender flowers. 'What if he was some kind of hermit and there's where we are walking the wrong path?' He asked his floury confidant.

Othello happened to walk into the room when Alan first started wondering, and now had one hand on his chin. From the obvious, since Alan came to the house, this was found an extraordinary acquaintance of plants. He wasn't amused by this fact, since it seemed to somehow calm the brunette even if said one didn't seemed to notice.

'If that was the case,' he said, announcing his presence and scaring the hell out of Alan. 'You would develop a patron that might told us you weren't fond of walking. Like staying secluded in your room whenever possible, and rejecting my invitations to go out. Which you haven't.'

Alan shrugged. 'I didn't want to look disrespectful. It's not… _me_ , to be disrespectful.'

'Well, that might be a patron, it might be not.' He rubbed his neck nervously. 'But it still isn't proving you were a hermit. You usually spend time on the living room and other times you would go to the garden. You look as though you avoid your bedroom, if anything. What adds that you weren't fond of staying sleeping or rejecting people.'

Alan started at him, thoughtful. 'Then, who I was before… _this_ , cannot be who I am now,' he took a pause, and then he looked again at the lavender blossom. 'Some of his perspectives may still be with me, but when he took the decision he took, he knew—or thought he knew—what he was doing and he knew he wouldn't be back.'

'Everybody knows they won't be back from it, which is no news.' Othello seated, and gestured for Alan to do the same. 'Neither of us are told we will be doing something more than suffering in hell if we do it, we just know we will be punished. Apparently, this is hell. However, that you…committed something against humankind, does by no way mean, that you are no longer the same person you were when you lived.'

Alan didn't retort, and Othello wouldn't press him to do so. The point was to regain his memories, and if he was stressed, there would effort wasted.

'One of the superiors brought this to my lab the other day. They said it was the _clue_ they would give you, so you can have them back.'

In front of him, there stayed a book, thick and with a smell that made something with Alan's stomach, but he wasn't sure how to qualify it.

 _Floriography_. It said.

 _By D. Adelains._ It said under the title.

He stared at it a little more, and then he opened it, on one of the first pages, he passed them nonchalantly, until he reached the dedicatory. He felt his heart stop moving for a moment, or he could have sworn he heard it, if it still moved.

 _To my dearest friend, Alan, who helped me in great quantities and without his help this wouldn't be published. If you ever get to read this (what probably you will), then I send you an affectionate hug._

'It was one of the books stood in your bookshelf, the day you died.' Read aloud Othello, but Alan could not hear him, he was stricken by the words, and the apparent intimacy they were written under. Who could this D. Adelains be?

His head began to hurt, he belatedly realised it. He closed the book and took air in, he let a good time pass until he let it out. He extended the book to Othello. 'At the moment, it will be the best if I don't see it.'

'Yeah, of course' he answered almost immediately, accepting the book without a bit of offense. 'I know that feeling too, Humphries, everybody passes for this. Or at least, everybody that is of our kind.' He smiled a little, and Alan did the same grateful.

.

There was one day, Alan was sitting on a bench in Othello's backyard, hearing the soft ruffling of the leaves that could be heard from the distance, with _Floriography_ in his hands. His hands were touching calmly all through one of the pages, as though what he had in hands was not an anthology—he remembered that the term came from the fusion of two Greek words that could be interpreted as 'a bunch of the best flowers'—but a letter. He thought of it as if it was a letter from a long lost from, who he longed terribly.

What exactly was his relationship with D. Adelains? His eyes opened, slightly surprised, but used to this sensation. He had had enough time thinking about it, so he had at least a bunch of his memories back. None of them, unfortunately, had any particular information that could help him to find out what led him to take such an extremist decision as he did.

But there was… one hand, a feminine hand. The memory was repentantly out of his reach, however, the image was printed in his retinas. This female hand obviously belonged to a delicate and cream-skinned woman. And this woman had Lilies of the valley between her fingers.

She had purity between her fingers.

He had a sensation of uneasiness, and before he could knew, he wore a chagrin on his lips. Was he frustrated because he couldn't guess what that memory fragment meant to him? Was it because he couldn't see who the woman was?

His head began to ache. He stared at the sky.

At night, he asked Othello about it. He replied that that was normal, and he assured him it was a fantastic new, because it meant he was close to reaching his "clean memory", as they called it.

Somehow, he wasn't pleased at the news. He smiled sheepishly to assure Othello he was impatient for that to happen.

Truth was, he wasn't. He was frightened.

At the next morning, Othello informed him it's been one full month since his human death.

'And you're working incredibly fast, so it's great news!' He added, and Alan felt himself again forced to smile, due to the other's enthusiasm. However, he wasn't feeling especially excited at the idea of finding out what his "clean memory" was, for it might depress him to remember the emotions he was feeling while that happened.

Somehow, Alan suspected this D. Adelains was related to the female arm.

His suspicion seemed to be true a few weeks after it, and he was mildly surprised at what exactly happened. He was sitting on the living room, drinking tea, when in front of his eyes there was a table he didn't remember buying, sitting in front of a refined lady, with soft brown hair, that looked almost golden with the glow of the sunrays trespassing the window, her features were delicate, almost porcelain, and her smile was something between affection and mocking.

He saw her moving her lips.

 _Alan_ her lips moved, but the word was muffled so he couldn't hear it, _are you sure you're feeling well? You spaced out._

He blinked.

 _Of course I am, my lady_ he found his voice answering, though he didn't felt his lips moving. _I just was reflecting on the knowledge that was taught to me a few hours ago, and_ he could see the vapour of the tea cup in front of his nostrils. He somehow knew it was Earl Grey, _enjoying my tea._

He heard a muffled laugh coming out of the young lady, and when he noticed the sepia-like aura of the place was when he noticed that it was not an illusion but one of those repentant memories he had from time to time.

The other usually were fast and weren't this real, were he knew every exact detail of what was happening, or what he was saying. She said something, and he automatically answered, so he didn't felt the need to paid attention to the conversation and try and think on what to answer, so he would be just a spectator.

 _How's the project of the book going, by the way?_ He had the need to open wide his eyes at this—the problem is he couldn't. So, if what he just said was what he thought, she was the writer of Floriography? The book of flowers? When he thought about it, it was the only right answer for it. There wasn't many men interested in the meaning of the flowers, and even if he, apparently had one, he wasn't one to pursue a writing. However, she looked like one, and unexpectedly she wanted. This also answered why only the D of the author's first name was proposed at the cover.

 _It's going wonderfully, in fact, they said they could publish it without much problems, my brother brought the manuscript to the printer yesterday and they said they would do it_ she now had a sheepish smile on her face, proving she was proud but also nervous. _If you wish, I can send you a copy of it._

 _No, I prefer buying it by myself_ he felt his lips twist into a smile, radiant and clear. _But this is great news, dear Daphne._

He blinked a few times, and he felt something hot sting in his lap. When he downed his sight he noticed he had dropped the tea over his pants and it was getting cold, oh well. He went for a towel to dry himself to the kitchen as he let his cup of tea in the table in front of him, while he was trying to think again of what had happened in his so called memory.

 _D. Adelains. Daphne Adelains._ Now everything was completely resolved. Or, at least, what he thought he needed to suicide. Had he had some kind romantic liking on her? Had she married someone else? Had she tried to run away with him? Had she gone out to other continent? What had happened to her?

Because Alan was sure that something happened related to her that provoked him to take his life away, for him to taking a lot of time to try and get her into his memories. Also, he was sure that he was close to his clean memory, more that he'd like, actually.

.

It was already February in Mortal Realm. Or that's what Othello said, at least. He had to go in Mortal Realm because he had to do some research and he couldn't do it on Reaper Realm.

'Almost two months, huh?' He whispered to himself, while taking a sip of coffee and reading some rules' book. 'It doesn't feel like it, when I'm trapped without any productive way of passing time by.'

Othello laughed at his drama. 'Don't make a soap opera out of your current situation, remember it changes nothing until you remember your clean memory, and hasn't happened yet, or has it?'

Alan shook his head, in negative. 'Then all we have to do is wait. Have you have a minimal idea of what you have to have so you can resemble that memory?'

Alan stared at his mug. 'I… might need knowledge of Daphne Adelains.'

Othello gazed at him with an arched eyebrow. 'I think I heard Grelle talk about her… some months ago. Why do you need it?'

Alan couldn't believe what he just heard. 'Grelle? Who is that?'

Othello did some movement with his hand to rest importance over it. 'Some friend of mine, however that's not important. Why do you need it?'

Alan went to the living room and gave Othello the book the superiors had brought him from his house. 'Are you saying that this author is called Daphne Adelains?'

'Hmph. I'm one hundred percent sure of it. I had a memory where she and I were talking about the publication of said one.' He said while nodding. Othello mumbled something to himself, while averting his gaze from him, as if he was avoiding him.

'Well… I might have figured out what had happened to her… I just remember Grelle bitching about some of her missions, it was…' and he repentantly was at a loss of words. Alan arched an eyebrow at his strange behaviour, but didn't push him to continue talking. 'I may convince her to talk personally to you. I have to work today too, since there's a lot to do in Forensics nowadays, with all the ruckus those… someone, is doing.'

Alan's suspicion only increased with the avoidance Othello was giving to the subject. However he kept his suspicions to himself and washed his mug, before going back to the living room and catching some of Othello's books. At this pace, he only had two days' worth of reading before he had nothing to read, at least he might like to try a re-read, that is.

But he had some feeling that, after meeting with Miss Grelle he would not need any more house seclusion and all-day-reading exercises.

.

As Othello promised him, he brought Grelle, but she wasn't anything Alan thought she could be.

For starters, Grelle wasn't a _she_. It was a truly odd sight to see, Alan admitted to himself, and he for sure wouldn't want to disturb the… other, with questions as to why Grelle addressed himself as a she—Othello warned him not to do it, Grelle was a Grim Reaper, what meant they had a Death Scythe, and it was capable of killing even them, Gods of Death.

'It's not often when I come to your place and have a nice conversation, sweetie, now is it?' Grell said while entering. She was about to say something when she spotted Alan reading on the living room. She gave Alan the same look he give at her: one of utterly surprise. Apparently neither of them were what the other expected (or may be that Grelle actually wasn't aware that he was to stay there until his clean memory appeared, per se.)

'I'm Alan Humphries,' he said, rising form the couch he was sitting in and approaching her, trying not to look bold. 'It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Grelle.' He offered his hand to shake, at to what she stared at it, almost surprised. After few seconds of awkwardness she smiled—some creepy smile Alan didn't like at all.

'Oh, you're so skinny I feel that I could eat you from a bite,' she giggled a little, much to Alan's surprise, and after processing she was doing some joke he himself did it a little. 'What's your age of die, fifteen? Sixteen?'

'Nineteen, one month and twenty-seven days, thank you.' Surprisingly enough, he didn't look stressed at the very mention of his death, what amused and interested her at first. Her smile became more mischievous, and Alan found himself looking for Othello's eyes wanting some help. 'I see you are… a Grim Reaper.'

'No any kind of Grim Reaper, darling, an A average Grim Reaper,' she corrected, and Alan nodded mumbling something along the lines of _fair enough_. 'Though, I must admit you look quite informed about the office.'

'He's eaten all of my books in less than a month and I had to full again my library, of course he would be further more than quite informed about the office' said Othello out of the blue, coming from the kitchen with what appeared to be glasses of brandy and a glass of red wine.

'I suppose that's why the superiors assigned this boy to you,' Grelle said, taking the offered wine. Othello handed him one of the brandy glasses, which he declined politely. 'Oh sweetie, don't tell me you don't like a little beverage from time to time?'

'I… I remember I used to loathe alcohol' was all he could defend himself with. It wasn't looking enough in eyes of Grelle, as she took the glass he declined and put it in front of him, the gesture almost looking demanding.

'Well, you're no longer that person, also… there's nothing that can kill you at this point, darling, at least not any kind of alcohol, and certainly not something like brandy. Now, it's only a glass, nothing to fuss about.' After that, she blinked at him, and he let out a sigh be out of his body. When Grelle was sure he was drinking from his glass, she turned her eyes at Othello, who was coming from the kitchen with some snacks to pass time. 'You said you needed to talk something of importance, what is it about?'

'Well, Alan is who's got the problem, so it may be better if he just spills it out. What do you think, Alan?'

'It's quite alright with me, Othello, thanks.' He stared at his glass, and he took a big sip, what lead him to cough a little. After he was recovered, he sighed. 'I was told you were working on a case involving Daphne Adelains, what was that about?'

Grelle looked as though she swallowed some bitter lemon, and she most probably did. 'I know her name, yes. It was involving some case of demons eating human souls. She was the last victim, and we couldn't stop the demon before it engulfed her soul with its obscurity. Was she of some importance for you?'

'My best friend, I believe.' Alan felt shocked at this, but he didn't let it show. He had to be calm, after all this wasn't his house, and this wasn't the way he had to behave in front of a _lady_. He did, however, rise a hand to accommodate his slipped glasses on their correct spot. 'I suppose it was to be expected, isn't it? Were' al born to die.'

Grelle tried to suppress a laugh, but she failed without a doubt. After looking oddly at her, she explained herself. 'You see, it is uncommon for me to see such straight-forward Death Gods such as you, not even stopping to analyse their own feelings or emotions, how the people that once was close to us die slowly, without us there to avoid such destiny, and yet, living eternally. In theory, only my William is as stiff as you, I think you two would get along well.'

Alan frowned a little at this statement. With her _who_? Othello chuckled a little at this, what apparently infuriated Grell, who let his glass on the table and started throwing some punches half-heartedly. She didn't looked angered, at least not in reality.

'I thank you so much for doing such a gentle comparison, Miss Grelle,' he said after a few seconds of awkwardness. She smiled at him and suddenly hugged him tightly. As though she wished him to die a second time.

'You're such a sweetheart, didn't you know?' And the conversation went on and over topics that came out of nowhere, or simply chit-chat. Alan smiled bemused at this, and found himself actually enjoying the glass of brandy.

.

He was awaken by some nightmare at the middle of three in the morning. Or so he suspected.

Truth is, that the thing that awoke him in the middle of the night wasn't a nightmare. He glanced at his surroundings, a little out of place, and when he recognized some shadows and thought clearly he let a steady breath out. After that, he let himself lay listless in the bed.

He already regained his clean memory. And he didn't liked what he saw.

There was someone taking the life away from Daphne Adelains. And he was witnessing every single bloody second of it.

He was scared at first, then he had done some reckless action that led the other to run away. The thing is… he was already late. There was no life left in the empty corpse he hold between his hands. He felt like all his… hopes of living any day more with her were long gone.

He felt substantial, as if he was watching some movie, after it. He knew she was no longer there, and still, he kissed her forehead one last time, and bid her farewell. And maybe, if she so wished it, he could go and accompany her in the lonely path that was hell. He could do it, that's what friends were for, after all.

People came to him at some point, and he was forced to break apart from her. He opposed no resistance, he hadn't the will, nor the strength for doing it, anyway.

And that's where the memory faded. He was awaken now, and he could visualize himself clearly, reading one last time her book and preparing some essence he had been waiting for a while. He was comfortable and the chimney was warm, he would have liked living the eternity like that. It would have been pleasant.

He didn't, however, and he had to blink a few times to take away the memory and stop himself from drinking that again. He knew what it was, after all. He got out of the bed, and found one of the rooms in the house with the lights on, so he went to investigate it. He didn't felt surprised when he noticed Othello doing some researches there.

'Morning,' he said as he entered into the room. 'Had you had a nice sleep?' he let his quill rest a bit after some time using it and stared at Alan, who shrugged as answer. 'How come?' He stated, smiling from such an unusual sight. Alan was evading him, somehow, and yet, he seemed eager to tell him something. He stopped his work to look at the brunette at the eye.

'I think I just regained my clean memory' he answered, and Othello stopped dead for a second, before regaining his composure and chill.

'Have you?' Alan nodded. 'Then, that's wonderful news!' He said, letting out an ear-to-ear grin. 'You may be the one who got their memory the less time, I have to say.'

'Have I? How much did you have to wait to have it back?'

Othello let out a little giggle. 'Around five months. And you just did it in two months sharp. That's more than just an outstanding. It's incredible.'

'Hasn't anyone done it in less than two months? I'm sure I'm the only one who's done it before.'

Othello shook his head. 'The quickest has done it in three months and half, and we are to check it on them, if they happen to surpass the last one we are to register it on the records, though, it is not a pleasant sensation the user must be feeling. How are you coping with this, by the way?'

Alan shrugged. 'I feel empty, I… know, I feel clearly why I wanted no longer life, and I know that my wish is impossible.'

'Well, at least you're not trying to kill yourself again. Now, that's a good beginning.' Othello cheered, but Alan didn't find it quite pleasant.

'I wanted the same demon… I wanted it to kill me, to devour me, so she and I were together again. She was my best friend, I couldn't leave her alone.' He thought about the whole situation for a moment. He remembered she said something to him about their friendship. 'I guess it didn't work and I couldn't attract the demon, huh?'

There was a moment of silence that followed his last sentence. Othello didn't appear wishful to break it, and instead he clapped one of Alan's shoulders and said steady and smoothly 'There, there' several times.

Alan wasn't sure if he wanted this opportunity to fix his sins. He'd gladly go to hell if he could avoid this emptiness, this solitude inside him.

.

Everything happened pretty quickly after that. He was attending some Academy, of what he forgot the name. Their first day, the teachers talked them about the different careers that they could be in, and Alan was somehow bored. He knew he had to study, and he knew he had to chase after one of those careers that they were offered, but he somehow couldn't find himself deciding right away. At that he was relieved, after all, he had six full months of training to find out and decide. That was great news.

After finding out his clean memory, he knew he had to move from Othello's, he wasn't in desire of doing it at the beginning, but he had to do it and Othello offered him all the possible comfort he could. A shake of hands, a few books and a promise to see you again was their farewell. Grell was there for him to go to the Academy.

The slowness of the things they had to do at the Academy (wait for six months to start their serious training on a speciality) was somehow messing with him, but he didn't let it show. He was occupied with school assignments, he hadn't time to overthink.

And so, the six months happened. He was the 'Head boy', and he was the cause of jealousy from much, he was hated. He hadn't heart enough to resent them, or pity them. He was still feeling empty. He knew he had something missing. He knew what he wanted to become, or at least from the offered careers was in front of his eyes, and that it had been all the way. He knew he had to take it, he had to chase after it. And that way he would fulfil that missing spot in himself that was empty. He would feel empty no more.

He chase after Grim Reaper, and he expected his hunch to be correct.

The first weeks were about introducing them to the subject. They told him he had a long year ahead him, they told him he had to study hard, physically and mentally. He had to be the best.

Everybody had to be the best. And Alan expected to be part of that everybody.

He passed some of his nights studying, some other of them he happened to talk with Othello, whom showed from time to time in the Academy for academic reasons (experiments he had to report to them) and asked him how he felt about this.

He was still the Head boy, but now no one would say things on his back, and he somehow was grateful about it. One of those days, he had someone—one of his classmates—asking him if he wanted a go-out with him and a few soon-to-be secretaries.

'Oi, you wanna come?' Said who he believed to be Knox. He ached an eyebrow, glanced oddly at one of the girls and then glanced back at him.

'I… think I'm better off if I just stay here. I have to wake up early tomorrow, anyways' he didn't wish to sound full of discourtesy, so he cleared his throat and smiled sheepishly. 'I wish you, however, luck in your… go-out.'

Knox sounded a little disappointed at this at the beginning, but after a few cries—courtesy of the girls in his two arms—he bid goodbye to Humphries and let him alone in his Academy room. Alan sighed after closing the door and tried to think clearly of something that could spare him another invitation like those. As of lately, Knox and other two classmates of his had become insistent of him to going out more than once a week, and even if he appreciated the gesture, he considered rather unnecessary to spend just in something wouldn't do a thing to them if they weren't human any more.

Instead, he passed his evening studying for his finals. The written exam had to be presented the next day, and he had no excuses to not be ready the next day. He was actually re-reading for at least the fourth time his book so it would help him pass his exam. He hoped to pass the exam.

.

He was in the Headmaster's office two weeks later. At his side was Ronald Knox, and the superiors seemed between the debate of something. After a few minutes of awkward silence, he decided to cough a little, so the superiors had his attention.

'Of course, we are terribly sorry at this.' One of them excused them, he looked at his papers again and sighed, 'Alan Humphries. You had a triple A in your written exam, an A in morality and a B in aptitudes. That gives you an average of A plus.' Then he looked at Ronald, readjusted his glasses and then seemed to prepare himself for something of terrible importance. 'Ronald Knox. You had a B in your written exam, a B in morality and a double A in aptitudes. That gives you an average of A less. You both have to work in your first recollection.' Then he extended one of the folders other superior had in his hands and started explaining their mission. 'Her name is Ayleen Rinehart, born at June 20th of 1763, she's supposed to die in September 7th of 1801. One month from now, is that clear, you both?'

'It is, sir' they said at unison.

They left the Headmaster's office bowing in signal of goodbye, and when they were out of there, Ronald let out a tiring sigh.

'Is something the matter, Mr. Knox?' Asked Alan, trying to be as polite as possible. Ronald shook his head and then he laughed a little, passing a hand over his hair.

'Nothing at all, Al'!' He looked to enjoy his own pun, as he laughed a little more. Alan sighed, in resignation and then he looked at the folder the Headmaster handed at him. 'Though, we have to spend a full month observing that woman, don't you find it a bit tiring? It's pretty much time, and we both know she won't be an _exception_.'

Alan said nothing to him, and started reading some of the information the teacher gave him, at the time he walked and Ronald kept on talking nonsense to him.

'Also, why won't you go out with us?' He said out of the blue, making Alan to pace out a little of his own world of written words and blinking startled at him, finally paying him attention. Ronald, looking at his reaction, knew he had to be more obvious. 'At going out. One of those girls really wanted to get to know you better the other day, that's why I had acceded a date with the other. We found ourselves quite uncomfortable without a second date, you know.'

'I am not interested in having any kind of relationship, at least not at the moment. Thank you very much for your concern.' He said, as politely as he could. Ronald puffed at this, and stared at him with an ached brow and a grin in his lips.

'Yeah but, you don't always have to be into the books, like you're just doing in this precise moment.' Then Ronald had a hand under his chin and looked almost wondering. 'You… appear to avoid something. But what?'

'Everybody's avoiding something here.' Was Alan's answer, even if he didn't upper his sight from the folder, he knew he somehow surprised Ronald with his bitter answer. 'In first place, we are here because we were avoiding life. Now we're doing what we are doing because we are avoiding the hell that our souls may fall into if we don't do. It's only perspective' then he shrugged and went off to the hall. They had to appear into the Human Realm, where some of the agents assigned them some sleeping places, where they would pass that month of human surveillance.

How promising that sounded. In all seriousness. If somebody had ever told Ronald he had to suffer this, he would never have pressed that trigger.

However, no one would tell him this.

.

Their month had been terribly boring. Ronald sometimes would suggest to go out, drink a little, flirt a little. Every time—or at least a 99.9 percent of the time—Alan would reject him, and say they had to survey the woman they were assigned to. Ronald would tell him they had nothing else to do, and that she wouldn't die just for not surveying her one freaking day, after all, they still had three weeks.

'Come on, lad, don't be so stir. Have some fun from time to time.' Alan rolled his eyes. He raised his sight from his reading, and looked at him mildly angered.

'I won't, Mr. Knox. I consider it quite inappropriate since it is our first recollection. We have to be prudent. Do consider, that they are testing our abilities and our behaviour. And certainly, one go-out for drinking wouldn't do good to our final note.' Ronald chagrined at this, but didn't reply. Instead, he glanced at the brunette and tried to focus on the tittle of the book, then, he opened one of his eyes incredibly surprised.

'Floriography?' He wondered aloud.

'Yes. Is there any problem with it?'

Ronald shook his head. 'No, it isn't. It just… surprised me seeing you, so serious, with this kind of book, for cheesy and always attentive women.'

Alan shrugged after a few seconds. 'I find it quite interesting. They are another language, like French or German. There's people who learn to speak it, who try to teach it to others. They comprehend it, they feel it.'

'Wow, Al, you sounded so…poetic.' Ronald chuckled. Alan rolled his eyes, but a little smile appeared on his face.

'This also was… a friend's,' he continued, and he gulped a little. 'And it somehow drives me closer to her.'

Ronald didn't know what to answer at this. He was surprised, evidently, but aside from that he just stared at him, a hand on the back of his neck nervously, and the other on his hips. After staring awkwardly at the floor, he then looked at him. 'So, tell me, Alan, where are you from? Your accent is quite… foreign to me, to be honest.' After seeing the look the other gave at him, he rapidly added, 'not that isn't incredible, but it's quite unusual.'

Alan sighed and Ronald thought his countenance looked ten years older that way. 'My parents were from Texas, and I was too, for around twelve years. Then, we came to England, decision of my grandparents, so I could learn more properly _the ways of the high society_.'

'It must have been way too tiring, for you to put it an ending.'

Alan's eyes then appeared to darken a little. 'It wasn't, but it was quite lonely. It _is_ lonely still. Maybe that will never change.'

After some seconds of silence, then Ronald's face appeared to illuminate. 'And I guess she was the only thing that led you out of your loneliness, huh?'

He nodded and closed the book he was reading. 'She was indeed. I wish there was some way I could see her again.'

'Aren't we forbade to see the quick we aren't recollecting unless we're on a mission?'

'She's not part of the quick anymore. But I wish she was.'

There was another awkward silence, and Ronald this time didn't feel like breaking it. 'Do you wish to look for her tomb?' He offered, and Alan's eyes seemed to glide for a second, and then as fast as they shone, as fast as they were off. He apparently discarded the idea.

'I don't think it is a good idea, Knox. We are supposed to survey the woman from tomorrow on.' He recommended, and then he retired his own glasses, and proceeded to the bathroom to put on some pyjamas. 'Now if you excuse me, I will prepare myself to sleep. Tomorrow is proven to be probably the most tiring day of the entire month.'

.

And Alan wasn't wrong with his prediction. They were terribly bored at the fifth hour of surveillance. Alan didn't liked to admit, but he knew Ronald was right the past night, they hadn't to survey the woman every single second of her life until her death, and it was true that it was deathly boring—OK, he had to stop passing time with Miss Grelle, some of her puns started to linger on him, even if just a little.

So, after watching some group of birds pass by, he decided to follow Ronald's advice and let out a sigh. 'What do you think of going out for some beverages? My treat.'

Ronald smiled and accepted the suggestion. 'Sounds perfect to me, Alan!'

And so they left and went to some bar, where Ronald asked for a few beers and Alan asked for a glass of water for himself, he never drank because he looked childish, and people wouldn't let him. That's why he was surprised when Grelle first suggested him to drink, but then he assumed it was because she knew he was in no age restriction to drink applied to him anymore, or any appearance. That is.

He spent some time with Ronald talking about the written exam, and how Ronald found it as easy as someone who hadn't studied all the year could find it.

'But you had a B in your written exam, why do you say you found it easy?'

'Because I didn't thought when I was answering. It all was matter of logic, if you are fighting a demon, of course the priority is not the disease hour, but to make sure the demon won't steal the soul. Now is it?'

'I know that,' he said frowning, and he drank some sip from his water. 'However, you say you didn't studied at all, then why do you want to be a Grim Reaper?'

Ronald waited a few seconds, then smiled wickedly and glanced at him. 'Everybody's avoiding something here, Al. You're avoiding your reason as much as I am avoiding mine.'

Alan wanted to retort him with something, but he came with nothing. Instead, he sipped again his water and realised how outstanding someone drinking water in a place like the one they were in was. He blinked a few times, and then he let out a sigh, after it he decided he would continue looking for their exam. It was worth their grade, after all.

He gave a few bills to Ronald. 'It would be great if I receive my change. I need some fresh air now.'

He somehow suspected himself to be running away, and most probably Ronald thought the same about him. Alan wouldn't blame him, he kind of was.

.

The month passed, and after some struggles—you know, typical fights, who's right, who's wrong, who baths first, Ronald do not flirt with those girls, Ronald pay attention to our objective, Ronald just don't do something that could put us in danger—they already did the recollection. It wasn't that hard, and they somehow ended getting along well together. Alan learned from Ronald's care-free way, and Ronald became more serious over paperwork. They actually became friends, and Alan was amused by this; the sensation, however, didn't displease him at all.

In theory, Alan would admit out loud he liked it.

They graduated, they went with Death God Lawrence, who gave them their new Reaper's glasses. Alan's frame was simplistic, the rims were of a coconut-like brown, and his lenses were oval. Their design was pretty much alike the one he received "for testing." And now that he graduated, he couldn't think of himself having some different design of glasses, he had grown used to them.

He was expecting himself to exceed on his work.

* * *

·Finis pars una·

* * *

Well, for starters, it wasn't my intention to make it this long, and... guess what? I had to cut this up, and it's going to be three parts! (Yay!) I wanted to develope well Alan, who, as you can see, is the focuse of this story. I made some headcannons I thought could look good on him:

—Alan's age. As you see, my purpose was him to be younger than William and Grell's first recollection (Dec. 16th of 1776, I believe ) but not that young to be a newbie at Musical's era (1889) so I put him some dates, carefully selected, I swear. Also, the same goes for his exams, that were carefully counted, he passed 1 and half years in Academy, ended in 1881 with his final exam.

—Othello. Headcannon surname, and somehow I visualized him to be great friends with Alan, who also happens to befriend Grelle (Alan became used to address Grell as a woman, Othello's advise).

—My English. I know this is not part of the story, but I am not a native speaker (per see), and also… I used better British English rather than American… because it needed to sound British? (Also, I don't know about their gradding way, so I'm terribly sorry if it happened that I was wrong).

These are it at the moment, thank you so much for reading'till here, and wait for part two!

—gem—


	2. Actum alterum: Forget the wrong

**Comments:** I… uh, while I was writing part one, I hadn't noticed one terrible mistake; dates. You see, Texas wasn't America's property until around 1836 or so, even when it was still Mexico's property there wasn't any Americans in it until New Spain's independency. Ugh, it was a big, big, mistake. I apologise to anyone who noticed it.

However, here's part two!

* * *

 **[2]** Forget the wrong that I've done.

* * *

'Wi-ll~!'

William T. Spears sighed, averted his gaze from the papers he was working on, and finally rose his face. He knew that voice, and that way of singing his name.

In front of him, Grell Sutcliff was hugging some brunette, he sighed again and drove his eyes again to the papers. 'Sutcliff, if you are here for showing me some of your _conquests_ again with the so purpose of making me _jealous_ , then I suggest you, please retire of my office.'

'Oh, Will, you're as stiff as ever,' Grell thanked him. The brunette seemed uncomfortable in his position, and drew his eyes to one of the wallpapers of the office, evading William's gaze. 'However, today I didn't come to talk with you about of how our love is eternal, even if some quick rendezvous interferes with us. Here, this is our son.'

'I'm not your son!' The boy shouted.

'You even have Willi's character.' He said sweetly, as he nuzzled against him.

William looked deadpan at him. 'Grell Sutcliff, out of my office, _immediately_.'

Grell sighed, and then he did as though he was disappointed. 'Oh my, if you don't believe I hid you a boy from nineteen years, how am I supposed to hide my stomach from eight months now? It's almost born, Willie!'

'Grell Sutcliff, your pregnancy is merely psychological, starting with the father. I won't repeat it again, _out_ of my office.'

'Bah, Will darling, I still love this character of yours. Learn from your father, sweetie. He'll lead you to great things and he—'

He couldn't say more. He was dragged against the door by William's Death Scythe, who was far more than infuriated. After he was dragged out of the office, he readjusted his glasses with the help of his Scythe, Scythe that he hid bellow his desk. The same boy that accompanied Sutcliff was still in his same position, he looked almost bored. William, not with enough patience to deal with more annoyance—one Grell per day keeps the doctors away, says the idiom—sighed.

'Are you not supposed to be in other place, kid?'

'I am not, sir.' And then he extended some folder to him, which William read rapidly, and then nodded. 'I am to be assigned a position in your dispatch, Mr.… William?'

'Mr. Spears.' He corrected, and the boy nodded in understanding. 'It is a pleasure to meet you, Alan Humphries, I hope the grades you achieved in the Reaper Academy weren't just to show and then you just lack off on work, as _others_ do,' this part seemed somehow directed towards the door, and Alan had a suspicion as to who was directed. 'However, with such grades and apparent discipline I doubt it coming from you. I expect the best from you.'

A knock was heard in the door. William sighed, then he mused a little 'Get in.'

'Hey Mr. Spears, Grelle told me you'd like to talk with me?'

'Oh, of course Mr. Slingby, I wished to know how your last reap went? Was there any anomaly?'

'Nay, everything went fine for me, maybe some resistance, but nothing I wouldn't handle.'

Alan was startled at first by his… accent. He actually had himself one more extravagant, at least from London standards, but… this wasn't clear, in lack of a better word. He knew some of his vocabulary was alien to other Londoners, but he tried to be as clear in his speech as possible, and this man obviously wasn't.

'By the way, who's this little lad? Is he some human Grelle brought again?' Alan noticed how William's eyebrow seemed to tense at the very mention of said reaper, and he was pretty sure this blonde man was aware of what his words did.

'It is not, Mr. Slingby, in theory, I was going to present you two at some point.' He then glanced at Alan and gestured at him, 'this is Alan Humphries, just graduated from Reaper Academy.' Alan bowed at the other.

'Alan Humphries. A pleasure to meet you.'

'Alan, this is Eric Slingby, he's came from Scotland a few years ago. He might look… rather scary, but I know you two will get along pretty well.' And after that he readjusted his glasses. Alan was almost sure it was an action reflect. Mr. Spears handed Mr. Slingby the folder that contained the information it was supposed to be given to him. Alan wasn't really sure what was inside that folder, but he assumed there was his personal information, and he never dared to see inside it. Now he presumed there was something involving this strange character Mr. Slingby was. 'Alan,' then Mr. Spears spoke to him, bringing him back to reality. 'You are to work your first month under the tutorship of Eric, for orders of the superiors.'

Alan was hoping for the other man to explain him how their dispatch worked, but he certainly didn't expect what left William's lips. Tutorship?

'I…'

'Do you have any complains about this decision, Mr. Humphries?'

'Absolutely not, sir. I am looking forward to work diligently in this dispatch.' He bowed a little, showing him he had nothing against the power the words of Mr. Spears held. 'Now, where am I supposed to be?'

'If I remember correctly, Mr. Slingby is to take you to your new residence, for what I know the academy gave you a key?' Alan didn't answer, instead, he took the little belonging out of a bag he had on one of his pockets. 'That is perfect. There's a direction in your data that shows were the new direction is. All your belongings are awaiting you there, you must come tomorrow to work at seven sharp, in two weeks you will have your first recollection, which has to be surveyed, and then you will have to do a report about it. After your first recollection, the same process repeats again and again. Is this OK with your terms, Mr. Humphries?'

'It is, sir. I am looking forward for tomorrow at seven sharp.'

Out of the room, Eric was somewhat silent. He looked thoughtful, and Alan didn't desire to disturb him, so he walked silently behind him, and followed behind him when he began to walk out of the building.

'You hunger?'

Alan was taken aback by that. He looked at him not understanding what the other had said, and so he had to repeat it. After his brain processed said words, he shook his head. 'Not really, Mr. Slingby. I am thankful for your offer, but my stomach isn't aching of hunger.'

Alan was betrayed by the growling sound of his stomach. He took a pause, closed his eyes, and damned a hundred of times his digestive system. Narky.

'Seems to me you're pretty hungry, mind going somewhere with me?'

Alan sighed, and then shook his head. 'In all honesty, Mr. Slingby, I'm terribly tired, and I just want to lay down on my bed and do nothing but sleep.' He took a pause, then, realising he sounded gold, added, 'but I thank you for the offer.'

Eric huffed. Alan raised an eyebrow at this, but waited for his superior to talk with him. 'You know you're gonna need all energy you can in this job, right? You know you won't last much with that attitude of yours.'

Alan stared at him a few seconds, then burst into laugh. Eric looked at him oddly, one eyebrow raised and curiosity bubbling from his eyes. 'I-I beg your pardon, sir' he excused himself, 'but the way you just expressed yourself wasn't quite convincing to me.' Then he realised what he said. 'I-I mean, you look quite… intimidating, but the smirk on your lips was mocking and easy. I… couldn't take you seriously whilst looking at it.'

Then it was Eric's turn to stare at him for a few seconds, then, he smiled and ruffled his hair. 'You can go far, kid. I like your sincerity, but take care of your attitude' Eric then paused and continued. 'Let's eat. I'm hungry, and you can't go to your house without me. Let's go no, won't we?'

Alan rolled his eyes. He very well knew that his upper was right, he didn't know how to get to his new residence, he never bothered to remember streets or directions on his walks with Othello, and he just didn't find it interesting, or rather important. He was just interested in trying not to regain his memories, and just look at what it lead him, record at regaining memories in al reaper history. Nice try Alan, nice try.

.

While it was true that he never was one to go out that often, he somehow secluded himself after passing the exam. It was true that he sometimes talked with Othello, others with Ronald (he apparently was Grelle's apprentice), and he had to pass overtime on Mondays and Wednesdays with his upper so he could have Friday nights all for him, some tea and some book of his taste. But besides that, he just desired to stay secluded in his house and do nothing. It was somehow pleasant enough to attract him and made him thinking about nothing.

That is, at least, what he thought. Othello was becoming worried of him, even if only a few days happened to be after his first week in the Grim Reaper Dispatch he could notice something beginning to change with his friend, even if he couldn't tell what that was. He saw that he wasn't feeling any comfortable anymore at going out with him, some walks, some chit-chat, even going and buying some books didn't seem to attract enough his attention so he could gave them more than half an hour. Othello knew this wasn't normal behaviour, not even for a Grim Reaper like him, so… terribly good at things he appeared to disgust.

Then he remembered something about the introverted persons, that they were more careful about the things that surrounded them, many adventures, little words. They usually weren't fond of something out of their little routine, and when they were, they tried as much as possible to stay in it. Even if it was some little change, they wouldn't like it.

He was starting to believe Alan was becoming one of those. For starters, he was really fast when it came to find his clean memory, that which cleaned all the fog in his memories (there came the name from), so he could remember what led him to commit such a crime against humanity. And that alone was enough to make others believe he wasn't just an average no-human.

Then he was slowly taking himself away of his own acquaintances. Othello decided he wouldn't paid much attention to those symptoms once he had more of them. After all, he never rejected him a go out, even if they were becoming somehow shorter every time.

It was a Thursday, his second Thursday at the Grim Reaper Dispatch, and Alan was looking at some documents William let him study. It was pretty interesting, and he was almost done when a bang was heard in other's desk. He blinked a few times and then he looked startled at his upper's place. 'Is something the matter, Mr. Slingby?'

'Is nothing, just some papers that fell from my hand… nothing to worry.' After that, he offered his junior a smiled that tried to persuade him to forget about the incident. Alan did as though he hadn't heard a thing and continued working on his own paperwork. After some hours at the same pace, they had grown tired of doing the same, or at least, Eric had. Alan, however, seemed to him to be at his element.

He couldn't avoid chuckling. And of course, Alan had to glance at him oddly. He was somehow feeling like he owed him an explanation, because it fell out of his lips. 'It bemuses me how you can be so attentive to work, without feeling tired. Tell me, are you feeling tired?'

'I am not, Mr. Slingby.'

'Why are you still calling me like that?'

'Like what?'

'That, Mr. Slingby, wouldn't you feel weird if I started calling you Mr. Humphries or something along those lines?'

'I would very much appreciate it, Mr. Slingby. It is a way of courtesy, and manners. Like using the cutlery in a dinner.'

Eric huffed. 'You just looked like some stiff high-classed old-woman, didn't you know?' Alan rolled his eyes, and sighed.

'But it also can be a way of showing coldness, _Mr._ Slingby.' And he continued on his own business. Eric seemed surprised by his… repentant change of humour, but after a few seconds of thinking he approached the other.

'Look, it wasn't my intention to make you angry.'

'And yet, you did, Mr. Slingby, you're full of surprises.'

'I just want to get along with you, OK? Be friends, you know, those stuff. When you refer to me as _Mr. Slingby_ somehow makes me feel awfully older than you.'

'Take in consideration that you are, in fact, much older than—'

'Let's focus on the important, shall we?' Alan reluctantly nodded. 'It makes me think like I'm working with a William Jr., you get my point?'

'I don't think I don, Mr. Slingby. You cannot force me to refer to you as something I don't wish. I want to show respect, and that is my own way. You are capable of calling me the way you wish, after all, you're my upper. But I won't step out of the protocol I've been told, I would find it highly disgraceful and rather intimate.'

Eric couldn't avoid the laugh that burst out of him. 'Intimate?'

Alan nodded. 'I don't know you, Mr. Slingby. And for the time being, I'll refer to you properly. If it comes the time when I get to feel comfortable being informal with you, then I'll do it.'

Eric didn't know what to retaliate. He obviously had a point, even if it felt bad for him not to win over that argument. He sighed in resignation. This was going to be hard.

.

It was already Monday on his third week in Grim Reaper Dispatch and he was terribly bored. He was doing some boredom paperwork William taught him to do―his oh so important upper apparently hadn't an idea of how to do this kind of documents―and he was in the middle of typing. In theory, he only was missing by a word when Mr. Spears appeared in front of him.

'Is something the matter, Senior Spears?'

'Not at all, Humphries. But I have something of terrible importance to deliver to you.'

Alan raised an eyebrow. 'And what would that be?'

In front of his writing machine William put a notebook. 'This is your to-die list. The superiors designed it accordingly to your style when you were a quick. Here you have all your recollections, their date stated and one you have to recollect them it will appear their personal information. Is that clear?'

Alan glanced at the notebook. He'd seen different to-die lists before. He'd seen Miss Grelle's, which was somehow flamboyant and forever red. It wasn't news, she'd always loved red colour. After staring searchingly at his to-die list, he resumed it was actually pretty close to his other he. It was dull and out of decorations. It was made of leather―probably some Italian―and it had a bookmark that said in which page his next victim was. Practical. He was actually somehow intrigued by how they were that… exact. 'Yes, it is clear. Do I need to know something for my recollection?'

'Nothing I haven't tell you when you first came here. However, you have to go with one of the secretaries and ask for your Death Scythe. They will do it as your liking.' He took a pause to see Alan's reaction, and then he nodded, biding him goodbye. 'That would be it from my part. I wish you luck with your first recollection.'

'I will, thanks sire.'

'Also, don't forget you have to do it with Mr. Slingby, you are not allowed to have recollections on your own until the superiors allow you to do so.'

Alan wished he was dea―he was beyond death. 'Yes, of course. I would never forget that. Thank you anyway, sir, for the reminding.'

After William left, Alan let out a curse, a minor curse (something along the lines of _bloody hell_ ) and then he sighed. He obviously didn't like his upper, he was terribly… informal. He had to be used to it, after all he conversed on a regular basis with Miss Grelle and from time to time with Ronald. He had to be used to informal-like acquaintances by this point. Or at least, he shouldn't be surprised to find people like that. After some minutes of deeply thinking, he came to the conclusion that he needed more time with his upper to start and treat him properly.

He sighed, maybe he was exaggerating,

And with that line of thinking, he went to where Mr. Slingby was―the cafeteria, having his rest―and he asked the other to accompany him to fetch his Death Scythe.

'I would never have thought of you desiring… such a Scythe.'

'I like the design, and it's pretty helpful,' he shrugged. 'And dynamic. It fits me.'

'Yeah, yeah, whatever you say. However, it looks like it's made for plant's take-care.'

'It is made for it, and I like it. I _love_ it. Also… hadn't Ron chosen a lawnmower?'

'Who?'

'Ronald Knox. Miss Grelle's apprentice.'

'Miss Grelle?'

When Alan looked at Eric, he realised he looked like laughing. 'What with it?'

'Everybody here knows it isn't a she.'

'Well, Grelle likes to address herself as a she. So I speak of her as a female.'

Then Eric let out a burst of laughter out of his lungs, who burned like fire. Alan raised an eyebrow, but he remembered his promised to himself, of starting to accept Mr. Slingby just as he was. And that would begin with letting him think whatever he wished about one of his closest―and maybe few―friends. Just don't let her know, and everything would be all right.

'You're too innocent for being on the Reaper Dispatch. What happened to you to chase after this?'

Alan looked at him with cold eyes, Eric realised he said something he shouldn't have. 'I suicide, just like everyone else here did. Everybody's got their own reason to be, and so I would like mine to remain private until I want to share it.'

Eric didn't press him to know what was that that he was hiding, instead, ruffled his hair. 'You're weird, Humphries. Maybe the weirdest bloke I've seen.'

Alan said nothing to the gesture. Instead, he rolled his eyes, a little smile tempted to be out of his lips.

'Oh, look, those are Erica Flowers!' First thing he said after their recollection. Eric eyed him cautiously, then he went to the balcony, where a series of purple flowers were placed. He smelled them, they had some sweet scent, they were beautiful too, what also caught his attention was the name they were given.

'Erica? Are you saying these flowers are named Erica?' Alan nodded with the biggest and most sincere smile he had seen on him. 'That they have my same name?'

'Yeah, those are my favourites.' He came closer to the balcony and then he sniffed one of them, a look of pleasure was written all over his countenance. 'They mean Loneliness in the languages of flowers.'

Eric was a little taken aback by that. 'Loneliness?'

Alan shrugged, and seemed a little sheepish to tell him about what he knew. 'Everyone is alone, from their birth time to their death.' He then decided to take the pot with them, action that caused suspicion from Eric's part. 'They aren't available on Reaper's Realm. Also, she won't have any more time to take care of them, and she was doing a wonderful job. I wouldn't like to see her effort go to waste.'

After some minutes of thinking, Eric came to the conclusion that he'd let Alan be. After all, they were starting to become friends, and that was such a good improving on their apparently fragile relationship. They had to work together, so they have to have a good relationship developed. He was happy to see his efforts hadn't gone to waste, just like those woman's when Alan decided to partake the Human Realm with that flower pot full of Ericas in his hands.

.

Alan wasn't grateful to find Eric reading _Floriography_ when he first invited him to his flat, three days after their first recollection.

'What does it have that book that caught your interest?' Said Alan to distract him. Eric, however, was reading the first pages, intrigued.

'The dedicatory.' He answered, and then he put the book in front of Alan's eyes.

'Yeah, I see the author was a wonderful and sweet person, they look like they were. So what?'

' _To my friend Alan_ ' retorted Eric, raising an eyebrow against him, Alan answered him rolling his eyes.

'So? Many people these days are born and many are called Alan. No wonder she had a friend who casually had the same name as I.' Eric smiled at him, and Alan knew he was damned.

'You just betrayed yourself. _She_?'

Alan rolled his eyes, though, he wasn't really mad with the man. 'It's none of your business, Mr. Slingby.' This time, he found himself trying not to laugh at the way the other said his surname, almost playful. 'Tea?' He asked, offering the blonde a mug with said liquid. Eric laughed a little and accepted the mug, took a sip and then let the book lay on Alan's hands.

'So… why're you here?'

'Because I live here?'

Eric shook his head. 'You know what I mean.'

'Well, to tell you the truth, I was born an angel, you caught me. I feel from heaven thanks to some mean angel, who used to be a friend of mine.' Answered Alan after thinking it for what seemed hours. Then, taking a sip he continued, shrugging. 'He said I had to do this job so I wouldn't transform into a demon. Now you see my real mission?'

'Uh, yeah, sure' the older answered nodding stupidly, like what Alan said had resolved all his incognitos. 'Of course you had to be. All those extraordinary grades, and your progress in Reaper Academy should have showed me that. How foolish I've been.'

There was silence. Then, they both burst in laugh, for no reason. After his lungs couldn't anymore, Alan reached for his mug and drank as much as possible, his throat was burning him. Eric sighed out of the blue, provoking a frown on Alan. 'I'm serious.'

'And I'm Alan, is a pleasure to meet you.'

'Humphries―'

'If I don't want to talk about it, Mr. Slingby, I beg you, do not try to press it any further.' He then gave the book a longing look. 'There's things of our past that we prefer to keep it hidden. What do you keep hidden, Mr. Slingby? If I consider it of importance, I might consider a trade.'

Alan hadn't an idea of what he was doing. His lips trembled, he was being terribly bold. He was sure Othello would laugh at him, and Miss Grelle would tease him over things she only could see. Eric looked in debate with himself, Alan could clearly say it, and he was about to tell him it wasn't necessary when a knock was heard in his door. He asked Eric politely to wait for him until he received his guest―who might be Othello, for sure.

'Yo'!' greeted the forensic. Alan replied with a bow and then proceeded to talk into the residence, waiting for Eric to say something.

'Good evening,' he answered, chuckling half-heartedly. Eric looked at him oddly, so he cleared his throat and then, with his hand, he pointed at Eric. 'Othello, this is Mr. Slingby, my upper. Mr. Slingby, this is my friend, Othello Wilmore.'

'A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Slingby.'

'I could say the same thing, Othello.'

.

'Daphne!'

He was sweating. It was three AM. The room was gloomy. He couldn't see a thing. His breath was slowly becoming normal again, but not as fast as he would like. Alan closed his eyes, and then passed a hand across his frown. He reached for his glasses, which were on the nightstand. He put them on, then, he switched on a lamp. He heard some steps on the hall. Ah, he remembered.

Othello stayed the night there, he had insisted Othello to do so. Eric left after remembering he had some particular business to take care at his own flat―something alike he didn't want to disturb him anymore―and so he went to sleep.

He heard his door opening. Othello's ruffled hair appeared in front of him.

'I heard you screaming, is something the matter?'

He shook his head. 'Nothing I wouldn't handle. I'm sorry if I woke you.'

'Not at all. I usually wake at this hours.' He winked at him, provoking a chuckle out of Alan. 'Well, if there's nothing that bothers you, I think I have to go to forensics now. We are… early risers.'

Alan laughed, this time clearer. 'Thanks for staying. I… am terribly sorry if I forced you to be here.'

'Nah, it's alright with me. I haven't had time to talk with you in a while, and I'm happy to see I'm still your friend.'

'What do you mean with that?' Said Alan, between chuckles and attempts of getting out of his bed.

'Nothing in specific. I simply recommend you to not get too involved in your work. It might be bad for your health.'

'And what could even happen to me?'

'When you work at forensics, you know everything could happen to a Grim Reaper. It could happen you die at hands of a Demon, or it could be that you…'

'That I…?'

'You're not trying to get my point, Alan. Don't take this _life_ for granted.'

Alan replied nothing to him. Instead, went to his dresser and put on a gown. The night was chilly, the weather was starting to down a little, and so he had to protect himself.

.

It was finally October of 1801. He had two months working at Grim Reaper Dispatch. He already was used to Mr. Slingby minding more than his own business, so life was easy to get on. Surprisingly enough, Miss Grelle hadn't provoked any disturbance on his first months of work, at to which he was grateful.

'Hey, Humphries, you want to go out with us to drink something?'

He stopped his pen and then he looked mildly intrigued at his upper, who was enjoying himself with Ronald. Alan let out a sigh, counted to ten and then shook his head. 'I'm terribly sorry to… decline your offer, but I pass. I'm working. And you should do the same.'

'Oh, come on, Al'! Don't be a party pooper!' whined Ronald out of the blue. Eric, however, was amazed that Humphries hadn't said a thing to the other because he said his name. Then, he remembered, Alan said something about befriending him in the past.

'I'm not going to fall for that, Ronald. Now you go with Miss Grelle and you, Mr. Slingby, sit here, and start your paperwork. You have an enormous pile to do today. Might as well begin.'

Ronald gave him some puppy eyes, but after receiving no answer from Alan did as he was told and started to part. He said something along the lines of _no fair_ and went away. Eric raised an eyebrow at Alan, who continued nonchalantly his work. Eric rolled his eyes, and then begun on one of his documents. They had worked like that for about twenty minutes, when William entered their office.

'Is something the matter, Mr. Spears?' Asked Alan, not even upping his eyes from the paper. The named shook his head, then, he blinked a few times.

'I'm actually surprised to hear Mr. Knox was doing his work, and so was Mr. Sutcliff. How is that related to you?'

'Well, I simply told Mr. Knox not to lack in his work. Here' he handed the senior his latest work, which he started to look at. After some minutes of reading, he nodded in acceptance.

'Good work, Mr. Humphries. I think this would be all for today, you can go, your turn is about to finish.'

'I will part home then, Mr. Spears. If you excuse me.' He stood up and started to gather all his belongings, before heading home. Eric was finishing one of his papers when Alan was heading for his coat. When his hand was on the door knob, he smiled, and looked at Eric. 'Have a good night, Mr.… Eric. Mr. Eric.'

Eric realised this was everything he could have from Alan at this moment. And to be job of two months it was actually amazing.

.

Alan proved to be good at taking care of plants. That's at least what Eric realised when he was visiting Alan another day, in April of 1807. He had a backyard, and it was beyond his comprehension how he could handle taking care of so many specimens and also have his job perfectly taken care of. Eric was sure he wouldn't have time of any hobby, he just hadn't the time to do it.

'Do you wish something to drink, Mr. Eric?'

'You still calling me like that?'

'I am. Do you wish something to drink?'

Eric smiled, and then he looked at one of the biggest pots. There, was a bunch of purple flowers. After trying to figure out what kind of flowers were those, a memory of their first recollection came to his mind.

'Ericas, huh?'

'Yep.'

'Are those the ones you saved?'

'They are, and they are about to grow more seeds. Aren't they wonderful?'

Eric glanced at them once more. There obviously were more than the last time he saw them, obviously there would be. But… wow, there were so many of them he couldn't believe how a person is capable of doing something alike what Alan did. He just… couldn't believe it.

'They are. It amazes me how well you have taken care of them.'

He could have sworn that he saw a little of pink colouring Alan's cheeks. 'I… have had them for about six years, of course I would have had taken good care of them, If they had survived all this time.'

After some few more minutes of refreshing his greenhouse, they went inside the flat and Alan started to boil some water and put inside it tea. He came to the living room with some biscuits he did the other day, to accompany the tea when it was ready.

'I still cannot believe it's been almost six years of working at the Grim Reaper Dispatch. Do you?'

'You work diligently, and it's not often when you stay out of your house or out of the office. So… I wouldn't say it is that unbelievable.'

'…How come?'

Eric shrugged. 'When you pass time with people, it flows slowly. When you pass it on paperwork, on a routine, you never know it already passed an hour. Then two, then there it went a full year.'

Alan chuckled, and went to check on the tea. 'Well, I prefer the routine, that way I can have everything I wish under my control.

'I would like you to be right on that.'

.

The 24th of April of 1826, Alan was in his house, looking longingly at his flowers, and thought about what could have been, had he chosen other path to take.

.

Alan was doing some paperwork. He was doing some paperwork until Eric crushed the door open, that is.

'That you have _what_?!'

Alan put a finger between his lips, signalling Eric to shut his mouth. 'Eric, you know I don't like you barking at me, especially when I'm working on my reports. What is it that worries you?'

It was an evening of August of 1860. His last recollection had been five hours ago, and he was finishing his report so he could deliver it immediately to William and then call it a day, have some reading at his house and finally sleep. He'd been busy all the day with some irregularities.

'William told me you were sick, is that true?'

'I am not, Eric, I'm totally healthy. See?'

'Then show me your wrists.'

Alan widened his eyes, but shook his eyes. 'No, Eric. It is not necessary. I see you had a terrible day and―'

'Alan. Show me your wrists.'

'Eric, I don't know what William told you, but I'm fine. I only had my wrists itching and―'

'Alan.'

'Eric, no.'

He looked more determinate to find out what Alan was hiding on his wrists. 'There's nothing to worry if there's nothing to hide, Alan. Just show them to me, and then I'll be calmed.'

Alan shook his head. 'I am not obliged to do so, Mr. Slingby.'

Eric took a second to process the big step back he did in matter of a few words. When did he stopped calling him Mr., anyways? He was so used to hear his name from Alan's lips that he found Alan's reaction a little insulting. Well, not a little, far beyond that.

'Alan, please. Just let me see them.'

The brunette gazed at him in confusion, then he realised the worried look Eric had. He looked like a lost puppy. He sighed and raised one of his hands, and extended it to his no longer senior. Then, with his other hand, he uncovered his wrist.

When he heard a muffled gasp coming from Eric, he added, 'Don't panic!'

The next time he gazed directly at Eric's eyes, they were full of an emotion he couldn't decipher at all. Or was it just pity?

He then did something Alan hadn't seen him do in their almost six decades of working together: he held his hand between his one and began to cry.

Alan wasn't used to someone holding his hand, he actually was beginning to feel awkward, but he decided to let Eric be. After all, he looked as though he was in pain.

'Eric?' He mused after a few seconds. There was clearly something wrong with his wrist, and he knew it.

'Does it hurt?' Eric asked, his voice broken.

'A little. It feels… like there's two tiny torns on each of my hands. Like they… like they're moving inside my skin.'

Eric caressed his hand like it could break under his touch at any second. Then he went for his own chair and seated beside him.

'Do you know what those are, right?'

'Of course, Eric, the diagnosis I was given says… it is a fairy tale.' After some seconds of silence and a glance from Eric, he added 'Eric, it is a fairy tale. No more. No less.'

'But William said―'

'William's hobbies are alike mine. He loves to be on his own house and read books, especially _fictitious books_ , Eric. _Fictitious books_.' He then chuckled and smiled at his friend. 'He… probable found out about this on one of his books.'

'Alan…'

'And even if this, what William says, it's true, I would just gladly accept it.'

Eric opened his eyes wide. 'But… why?'

'Because they suffer alone, Eric. They, humans, suffer the presence of the Death, and maybe this way, this way I may be capable of sharing their pain.'

 _And what about the ones that stay here, mourning over those who gave themselves to Death?_

Alan smiled. Eric chagrined. Not much time after him, Alan did the same. Everything around them felt so surreal, and both of them wished for it to last an eternity. At some point, Eric got close to Alan, and Alan forbade not his closeness. Instead, he offered Eric his hands, which were taken mindlessly, and finally covered in Eric bigger ones.

'You sound like you're ready to die.'

Alan smiled at him. 'That was the plan.' And he let out a stifle that sounded dangerously close to a laugh.

Eric smiled, too, but then, out of the blue, held Alan in his chest, hugging him. 'But that's not the plan anymore.' Alan opened his eyes wide, surprised by the movement, and then he gazed at the floor, his hands moving slowly on Eric's back. He smiled a sad smile. He looked like he was about to speak a child out of their fantasy, to tell them daddy wouldn't come home anymore, because there have been an accident at the place he worked, and that he had to go because he was hero now.

'I'm tired, Eric. I don't even know what the plan is now. The reason I became Grim Reaper was… the thought that I could avenge her, my only friend in humanity. Now, with fifty nine years of experience over the job, I tell you, without doubt, that it's not worth the vain anymore.'

Eric almost imagined an old man in front of him instead of his dear friend. It was almost impossible to him to imagine a world without Alan. The brunette might have stopped being his tutored decades ago, and he may have become his best friend, he might be grumpy sometimes and other just be overly sweet. But he was so used to him that he couldn't imagine the world he lived in without him. He was his… only opportunity of salvation in this world. He was the light in their dull and boring life of Grim Reapers.

That was his fragile ray of light. And he wished that a mere fairy tale wouldn't take his light away.

.

Hours later, they were walking to Alan's flat. Eric was still holding Alan's hand on his own, the brunette said nothing because he had grown comfortable with the feeling of someone taking his hand. Also, it was Eric who was holding his hand, so he would allow him to do so. Just for that day, probably.

Neither of them said anything until they reached the flat, and even after entering they stayed silent. Alan, feeling the weight of silence in his shoulders, coughed a little. 'Do you wish something to drink?'

'Do you have any brandy?'

Alan smiled, and nodded. 'I still have the bottles you gave me, if it helps.' He went to the kitchen and started to serve a glass for Eric. He was about to tell the other when he heard him mumble something, looking at some of the pictures in the wall.

'…And I will come again my love, though it were then thousand miles…And fare thee welt my love, and fare thee welt a while. And I will love thee still my dear, till all the seas run dry…'

He stopped singing when he realised Alan had been here all the time, listening to him. Alan opened his mouth to protest, but then realised that he had nothing to convince Eric that he was innocent. Anyway, why wouldn't he be innocent?

'The Superiors let me have those pictures, when I had twenty years of service accomplished, they gave them to me and said I could keep them.'

'This is your friend, right?' He pointed at one of the paintings, where there was a young woman seated beside who undoubtedly was Alan. He nodded.

'Daphne Adelains. She was engulfed by a demon in some attack about sixty two years ago.'

'She was indeed beautiful.'

'Yes, she was.'

After some seconds of silence, Alan extended his arm, offering the brandy glass to Eric, who sipped it and then let it on the chimney. 'I remember that… all my acquaintances would say I was going to propose to her someday, that we looked already married, and somehow in love, so why not take the next step?'

'Did you love her?'

'I loved her, but not the way everyone expected me to do so.'

Eric answered nothing to that.

'Was that a love song you were musing earlier?' Said Alan, out of the blue.

Eric arched an eyebrow, but then nodded. 'It is.'

Alan blinked a few times, confused. 'My love is like a red, red rose, that's newly sprung in June…' He hadn't realised Eric was so close to him, he could sing it in his ear whispering with his Scottish accent. He felt electricity running through his spine, and he knew it was caused by Eric's breath. With one of his hands, the older held his chin. 'And fair art thou, my bonnie lad, how deep in love am I.'

Alan's eyes widened when he noticed what Eric was implying, yet what he was about to do. He couldn't avoid the contact between his lips and Eric's. The Scottish's actions were completely unfamiliar to Alan, he wasn't used to be kissed, or to kiss. He wasn't used to someone interested in him, so he hadn't an idea of how to react.

Supposing this was how he was supposed to react, he closed his eyes, and kissed Eric back, just to reach out of him. 'I'm sorry' apologised Eric, averting his gaze from him.

'It is…' _OK_ died in his lips before he could complete it. It… was not. He was confused, and he hadn't an idea of what to say.

'I… I swear I didn't think it… I…'

'It doesn't matter, Eric. Maybe… it was bound to happen.' No, it wasn't, some part of him says. But to reassure Eric he believes what he's saying, he slid his hands over his neck and hid his head in his neck. 'I'm thankful you are here now.' That wasn't a lie, and he didn't say it so Eric would feel it better. He sighed, then, dared to look Eric at the eye, I'm not dying, Eric. If it's what worries you.'

Hesitant, he closed the distance between their lips and pushed a peck, before breaking apart.

'I wouldn't let you die.' This time he wasn't taken aback when Eric's lips met him, not even when his tongue parted his lips and intruded his mouth. With some difficulty, they went to one of the sofas.

'Are we…?'Trailed off Eric, unsure of what to say in a situation like the one they were in.

'Just for tonight, Eric.' Answered Alan, letting Eric's mouth travel down his neck. 'I… wouldn't like to lose a friendship like ours if something goes wrong. Do you get what I'm saying?'

'Aye, I understand.' He answered, and Alan could have sworn he sounded somewhat disappointed. Alan let him trail kisses in his neck, as well as untie his tie. He would let him do as he pleased, after all, it would only be that night.

.

The next morning Alan woke slowly out of his slumber. It was about 6AM, he blinked once. Twice. Then thrice.

When he was able to gaze without blinking, he reached to the nightstand for his glasses. He then tried to sit, and found himself feeling uncomfortable, after some seconds and a snort beside him he remembered why.

Thus, Alan decided to take a shower. It would help him ease the uncomfortable sensation he was feeling.

Eric awoke seconds after he existed from his bath.

'Morning.' Alan greeted. Eric mumbled something that sounded like what he said. 'Did you sleep well?'

Eric, half sleep, nod. 'Can I take a bath?'

'Yeah, sure. It's over there. There you can find towels as well.'

Neither of them spoke about what had happened in work. However, when Grelle found out some red marks at Alan's neck―that not even his t-shirt was capable of hiding―wouldn't stop harassing him until he tell her. So they were on their break, Alan with his tray of beef with some salad and fruits while Grelle had her tray full of sweets and steak.

'That you _whaaat_?!' Immediately, Alan tried to shush her gesticulating with his hands.

'Please, Grelle, consider it and be a little… less loud.'

She looked like a scolded child who's been forbade of touching their parents belongings. She rolled her eyes, Alan could notice all the make-up fluttering in her lashes, and the thought of her putting on make-up made him a little happier.

'I'm sorry darling, but I've known you for more than sixty years and I'm amazed by… I hadn't an idea you were so bold.' With her teeth in a sharp-like form she just reminded him of the Cat of Cheshire.

'It is not what you think it was, Grelle. It… it was… it was…' Why was he even explaining himself?

'I don't need your excuses darling. Your red cheeks say everything.'

'I haven't my cheeks red.' And he wasn't lying. In theory, it were hers whose were pinkish.

'Oh, darling. Tell me everything. Huh? How it was?'

Alan sighed. 'Grelle, this is not something you say lightly, this is private. We both accorded this would be the only time, and that's it.' He tried to make sure Grelle wouldn't take this like there was something going on between them, because there wasn't. Grelle looked like she was going to reply something, but then her gaze fell on something on the hall that made her smirk.

'I have a feeling that he doesn't think the same, sweetie.' And with one of her nails she pointed at Eric, who was looking at Alan from a considerable distance, and when he knew himself uncovered, he returned his gaze to his plate. Alan knew Grelle was right, Eric wasn't coaxing well with his decision. But he wouldn't like him to suffer, just because he was dying. One day, he would no longer be there, and what would happen to Eric? He would go over him?

The thought itself sting. He wasn't… of many friends, and the mere knowledge that someone held him in enough high esteem to think of him romantically certainly was a wonderful sensation, but… he just wasn't born to love or be loved.

The Thorns of Death had said so. And he had to follow their might.

.

It was already 1889. The cold air wasn't doing any good at his shaking. He sighed and then entered the building, where he had to finish a report and then start some recollection.

.

'There has been no programmed deaths on the area of Westminster, there hasn't been any soul collected, and people keeps dying.' He said while giving his report to William, who read it superficially and then extended to him.

'I knew giving the case to someone like _him_ was a bad idea.'

'With him you refer to…'

'No, no, no! It is not _him_ , it's her!'

'…Alan Humphries, I assign you the case 666-2424, I hope the souls are well collected.'

'I will be his support!'

Alan looked hurtfully at Eric. 'Might as well be.' Declared William before heading to his own office.

'But I don't need any support! I can easily do it on my own!'

'Oh, shut it now, Alan! You're being bratty.'

Alan glared at Grelle, who obviously wasn't helping in his case. Then looked hurt at Eric, who was oblivious to the gaze he was receiving. He didn't need any help, why did they think he was weak?

After a minute of dwelling over following or not following him, he sighed and did it anyways. He heard Ronald, however, say something, which confused him, especially William's answer.

'…Ah, won't it be, _that_ way?'

'Indeed.'

.

'Oh, so you're the so called Sebas?' He took a pause. 'Not that bad.'

Alan felt the blood burning through his veins just at the presence of the… vermin. And so, against everything his training said, he went to attack the demon. He was about to hit it with his Death Scythe when something hurt in his lungs. Holding onto him.

'Alan!'

After some minutes of discussing the possibility of them staying at the Phantomhive manor, Alan felt like laughing. 'Going to the house of your enemy, isn't it…interesting?'

Eric didn't look like following his train of thoughts. His face was utter horror, but he guessed it was because of the recent attack he just had. Because he knew Eric wouldn't answer the other, he nodded. 'Please, lead the path.'

He passed out in the middle of the way, and he dreamt of Daphne, afterwards, he dreamt of Eric, and the possibility of them being together. Possibility is called that way for a reason, after all.

.

He… no, this wasn't correct. This…this demon, was lying. He tried to hide his surprise, and was looking at Eric with a frown and his arms crossed, while he was laying against one wall, listening to what _Sebastian_ was saying.

'I guess that trying to deny it anymore will only do badly for my reputation…' finally stated Eric, and then began to fight with Sebastian. He felt something alike the attacks of the Thorns hitting him, but it wasn't hurting him the same way. Oh, so maybe this was what betrayal felt.

.

'Eric, answer me!'

'I'll answer you after I'm finished recollecting!'

'No, answer me right now! I won't let you until you tell me everything!' He signalled to the ladies that lied death on the floor. 'All this killing, for what?!'

'You've become weak, Alan. And it's the Thorns of Death's fault.' Was the last statement of Eric before running away with the Viscount of Druitt.

.

Alan shook his head, in deny. 'Only… one thousand pure souls can cure the curse of Death…' he mumbled under his breath, then looked at Eric. 'That's only a fairy tale!'

'I don't care if it's a mere fairy tale!' Shouted Eric back at him. 'I… I couldn't find another possibility of saving you.'

Alan wasn't pleased with Eric's answer. He… he wasn't worth of it. He just wasn't. He sighed. 'Rule number one of the Grim Reapers: always carry in shape your glasses!' Eric looked at him confused, then he realised what he was saying. 'We are exemplar Grim Reapers, always punctual, who would dare disobey,' he removed his glasses, and smiled at him, '…who?'

When he received no answer, he chuckled a little. 'Without my glasses, I cannot see much. Even now, all your sins are getting blurry.' He smiled at him, and Eric couldn't believe him. 'I forgive you, but promise me you won't commit more sins for me?'

Eric couldn't and wasn't believing him. 'I… why?'

Alan stopped for a moment, and then shrugged. 'Because I still want to be partners with you. I still want to remain by your side.' With his hand, he took a handkerchief from his suit and put it on the ground. Atop of it, his glasses. Then, he extended his arm, expecting for Eric's. He went to his side, and eyed his own glasses. They both knew what that meant, they both were giving it to chances. Until the last moment of Alan they would be together.

.

His hands were shaking, they could barely hold his Death Scythe. Even without his glasses, he knew what he had done. The blurry shape of Alan was undeniably in front of him.

He… he didn't. He didn't do it. They… this was the demon's fault. It was him, of course it was him. It had to be. But Alan… he would be left alone if he does leave his side, so he stayed, and let his cry fall into Alan's deaf ears. He let his tears hydrate Alan's pale face, he let his sorrow dig in into Alan's soulless body.

'In the end, you did it. You made to collect One Thousand and Pure Souls. I congratulate you on your collecting.'

That damn demon. Eric didn't care anymore. He wasn't processing completely those words. They reached his brain, but it worked no more. He was too into his own sorrow, he couldn't let in anything else.

'Kill me, demon.' He said, and after it he hugged tightly Alan's body to his. 'Please, kill me.'

Alan once told him, after he finding out about him having the Thorns, that his only wish, was to be killed, someday, by a demon. He wanted the same death his dear Daphne had. Eric hadn't comprehended it at the moment, and now he did, he wished he hadn't. Because he, himself, wished for the same. Wished for inferno, anywhere but a life without Alan. He wished Alan to wake in heaven, to talk with Him, to be happy.

That's why, when he looked at the demon, and it had Alan's Death Scythe, he thanked anything was listening to him, for doing his, Alan's dream, possible on him.

* * *

•Finis pars duorum•

* * *

—I wasn't supposed to write anything explicit going on between them, even though their relationship was pretty clear itself. The first draft of this part had a few flashbacks of Alan's human life (you know, conversations with Daphne, and stuff) and other more related to Eric, Grell and Othello.

—Even now, I still find somehow hard to write about these reapers, especially related to Kuromyu Ii, my hands were shaking while writing the last drops of the chapter.

—I didn't want to write the whole scenario of the musical, most of you know how it was, and if those dialogues were there or not (but of course they were, I recently watched it), I maybe jumped some dialogues but that was because they were somehow connected to the songs (except Alan's part singing while taking off his glasses, I just couldn't let out that.)

—As I said in last chapter, I have the headcanon that Alan sees Grell as a female, specially thanks to the 'with him you refer to…' doubtful dialogue. He looked like William had said something wrong, and his tone didn't indicate fear, so I thought, he would respect her, and that's when the whole befriending idea came *sparkle, sparkle*.

—The song Eric was singing is called 'My love is like a red, red rose', it's from 1787 and it's Scottish. I wanted to use 'Wide water' or 'The Rose of Tralee' but they weren't that old so… I didn't use them.

Thanks for reading until here, I hope part three doesn't come as long as this, since is more of an epilogue rather than a chapter. That, also, will begin in the part this ends (how, you ask? ;D to se-cret) and will probably be delivered in the next week.

Until part three!

—gem—


End file.
